


A Taste of Reckoning

by spikesgirl58



Series: The Tasteful Adventures of Illya and Matt [7]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya struggles with the restaurant, the fact that he and Matt are drifting apart, and of being alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Reckoning

Illya Kuryakin stared up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling.  For the first time in three years his bed was empty as was his heart.  He swore that he wasn’t bitter or angry about Matt having a boyfriend.   Matt was particularly shameless when it came to his needs and, as of late, Illya had not been able to offer Matt much in the way of a playful bedmate.  Who knew running a restaurant could be so exhausting?  It’s just that he’d gotten so used to having Matt beside him, whether in the kitchen or the bedroom.  It was hard to be without him now.

Illya smiled, remembering that first day they’d moved into the small house they’d shared.

                                                                                ****

 _“Cara_?” 

“Yes, Matt?”

“Are you half as _esausto_ as I am?”

“And more, I think.”   The house creaked and both of them looked at each other before Illya laughed.  “House gremlins.”

“I hope they do their dishes,” Matt muttered, pulling the sheets up to his chin.

They had walked in the front door and started cleaning.  Illya wasn’t as worried about the house as he was the restaurant, but they need some place to live while they put the building to rights.

No one had been in the house for months, yet thankfully someone had had the good sense to put dustcovers over the furniture.  They had swept, mopped, dusted, and scrubbed until darkness made it impossible to proceed.  They hadn’t gotten the electricity turned on, but there were candles in the closet and propane in the tank.  They made dinner by candlelight, ate in front of the fireplace and now they were in bed.

“I thought before… in school, that it was hard.”  Matt shifted in bed.  The mattress wasn’t in the best of shape, but it came with the house and there simply wasn’t any money for extras.  “This is going to be harder, I think.”

Illya rolled onto his side and studied Matt’s profile.  “I think you are right.  But we are a team.  We can do this.” 

_“Si.  Io credo in noi”_

“I believe in us, too.”  Illya pulled Matt closer.  They were too tired for sex but it was nice to have someone in his arms.  It was good to have someone in his arms that he didn’t need to question or second guess.  With Matt, he was comfortable.

                                                                                ****

The wind whipped the branches harder and the shadows’ dance picked up.  The house cracked and popped.  It was a familiar sound now, comforting in a way. 

At first, he and Matt had been friends, then best friends and finally lovers.  Lately, however, they had been drifting apart.   It seemed that he hit the ground running, never stopping until he tumbled into bed.  The intimacy they had shared in San Francisco was gone.  Too many things to do often dragged them in separate directions and the only time they saw each other was at night and in bed.

They used to make the effort, now even that was a dim memory.  Illya couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex and been fully vested in the moment.

There was suddenly movement on the bed as Buerre Noir joined him.  A moment later Moutard was there as well.  Well, Matt might not be here, but these two were.

                                                                                *****

“ _Cara,_ come here… quietly.”

Illya set down the boxes he’d been carrying and walked quickly to Matt’s side.   There in a mess of piled up rags were two small still forms.

“What are they?  Rats?”

“Not rats, Mattie, cats.  Well, kittens, really.  So young, too young to be on their own.”  Illya knelt and studied the forms.  He was inwardly thrilled to see they were both breathing.  “Matt, go to the store.  In the pet food aisle there should be some kitten formula, then go to the baby food aisle and get the smallest bottle you can find.  The pharmacy next door might be better.”  Illya reached into his pocket and pulled out two wadded up twenty.  He didn’t need new jeans, but these two little ones did need food.  “And, quickly, Matt.”

                                                                                ****

Moutard, a yellow cat, who made up for his nondescript coat with an over abundance of personality, butted his head against Illya’s hand until Illya started petting him.  Buerre, a petite brown tabby, was simply happy to stretch out against Illya’s other side.

“If I knew then what I know now,” Illya said and Moutard’s purr grew louder.  “You’re right I wouldn’t do anything differently.  Well, perhaps I would have slept better.”

                                                                                ****

Illya dropped his armful of trash and wiped his brow.  He and Matt had been working on the restaurant for the better part of a month and they seemed no closer than they were before.  It would have been nice to have hired professionals but they were barely making the mortgage payment and the necessary expenses.  Illya’s savings were about tapped out and he knew Matt was in the same place.  Soon it would be time to enter another cooking competition.  Illya sighed and wondered how he was going to manage to fit that in as well as everything else.  Still, they needed the money to open the restaurant.

“Hello?”

Illya turned and saw a man, close to himself in age, standing on the front porch.  “We aren’t open for business.”  The stack of debris took that moment to tumble over.  “Obviously.”

“I can see that.”  He offered his hand.  “My name is Jesus.  I operate Heaven’s Gate.”

“The bakery?  I’ve been in there.  You’re very good.”

“I am, and not just at baking.  I have a shameless and uncanny knack of picking winners.  Say, take my wife of 35 years, for example.”  He looked at the structure.  “The man who owned this before made only fried foods.”

“So I could tell from the four deep fryers in back.”

“He misidentified his client.  He saw Jackson and thought we were just a bunch of uneducated hicks. This is a nice space and it gets a lot of traffic.  A man with a vision could do wonders.”

Matt came out of the door just then, shaking plaster dust from his frizzy red curls.  “Men,” Illya said, helping Matt with his task.  “We own the place.”

“Even better.”  Jesus looked past Illya into the interior, still a jumble of saw horses, wood, paint, and tools.  “But you need help.  A lot of it from what I can see.”

Illya nodded and shrugged his shoulders.  “But we have no money.”

Jesus laughed.  “Then perhaps a bargain.”

“Such as?”  Illya was instantly cautious.

“I will help you.  In return, give me the opportunity to supply you with baked goods.  If you like what I do, hire me as your baker.”

“That sounds fair.  Could you start tomorrow?”  Illya offered Jesus his hand and they shook.

“You have something against today?”  Jesus picked up a monkey wrench and hefted it.  “I am betting the restrooms are a mess.”

Matt laughed and hugged Jesus.  “I think I love you!”

 

The next morning, there was a knock on their front door. 

“Must be the mail,” Illya muttered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  It had felt like he no sooner closed them then it was time to get up.  Their days tumbled in on themselves as of late.

“It’s Saturday.  We don’t get mail until this afternoon because the mail guy delivers to Sutter Creek first today.”  Matt jogged up to the door and opened it.  “Jesus, good morning!”

“Good morning.”  The man entered, carrying a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries.  “I thought you might need something before we got started.”

Illya joined Matt and looked out the door.  There were a dozen cars parked in the weed-overgrown lot and at least four dozen people were piling out of the vehicles or walking up the street.  Some people were already busy attacking the asphalt with clippers and racks.  Others were carrying large flats of flowers and greenery.  Still others carried buckets of paint or lumber. 

“Who…?”  Illya swallowed.

“I asked a few of my friends and family to help and they asked their families and friends.  In this community, we help each other.  It’s what friends do here.”

“Jesus…”  Illya swallowed.  “I can’t…”  He looked at Matt beseechingly.   “We can’t pay…”

“Is the restaurant kitchen working?”

“As far as I know, although we haven’t really had a chance to test it yet .”

“An exchange, then.  Make us lunch or dinner or both.”  Jesus grinned, exposing a gold tooth.  “I have a feeling your talents will be better spent in there cooking than with us.”

Matt teared up and hugged Jesus before reaching for Illya and dragging him into the embrace.  Then he stopped.  People were applauding.   It was a moment that would define this small town and Illya’s intense loyalty to it.

 

That afternoon, they were in the kitchen when two men walked in.  They were holding their hats in their hands.

“May we speak with the chef?”

Matt pushed Illya forward and Illya wiped his hands on his apron before holding one out.

“I’m Illya Kuryakin.  May I help you?”

“I’m Rand and this is my friend, Henry.  We need kitchen jobs.”  The two exchanged looks.  “And we want to work together.”

“I will need help, but we aren’t hiring yet.”

“But you will be.”

“Yes.”

“We need jobs.  We will work in exchange for the experience.”

Again, Illya fell back upon his training with UNCLE.  He’d learned to look at a situation and trust his initial gut feeling.  He walked over to a table and grabbed up a couple of aprons.  “Welcome on board.  What are your specialties?”

“Name it.”

                                                                                ****

That afternoon, Illya hired Rand and Henry and never regretted a minute of it.  He still didn’t know much about their background, but considering how selective he was about sharing certain aspects of his, Illya didn’t mind.  He looked into their eyes and liked what he saw.

There was a noise downstairs and both cats jumped off the bed.  Illya sat up, frowning, his eyes closed as he concentrated upon the noise.  A squeak on the stairs and Illya slipped his hand under his pillow for his P-38.  Of course, it wasn’t there.  It had been years since he’d slept with a weapon.

The door slowly creaked open and Illya held his breath.

_“Cara?”_

“Matt?”  Illya blew out the breath he was holding.  He reached over to click on the bedside light, intent upon giving the man a reaming for scaring him.  Then he saw Matt’s face, drawn and pale.

“Room for me?”  The man’s lips were trembling.  The man looked devastated and Illya didn’t hesitate for a moment but merely nodded.

“Always.”  He flipped back the sheets

The next moment, Illya has his arms filled with a sobbing Matt.    Both the cats jumped up on the bed, purring and rubbing, doing their best to offer comfort.  Illya rocked and shushed Matt quietly, speaking soft Italian words in the man’s ear.   It would take time to get the full story but Illya knew he would.

For better or worse, this was his life now and he was content.  He had family, dysfunctional but a family still.  He had good friends, a thriving business, and people who believed in him.  In return he was shameless in his devotion to this small community and its people.  Now, if he could only find a way to fill the Napoleon-shaped hole in his heart, Illya would be happy.  Until then, this would have to do.


End file.
